The first mate flipped on the comm. Immediately a harried voice filled the cabin. It was also officious and slightly bellicose.
“ . . . a private residence! Identify yourselves, please! This area is defined as . . .’
Hammurabi leaned over the mike for the second time in two days. “Malcolm Hammurabi, Captain-owner of the free freighter Umbra, and First Mate, along with Lieutenants United Church Kitten Kai-sung and Porsupah, and engineer Philip . . . Philip . . .” Mal glanced back at the lanky youngster. In all this time he hadn’t thought to ask the fellow’s last name.
“Lynx,” the engineer replied.
“ . . . Philip Lynx, to see merchant-trader Chatham Kingsley, and is the old S.O.B. at home or not?”
“I beg your modification, Captain! I might inform you that . . .”
“Never mind, Hulen,” a cultured, even voice broke in.
“Yes sir,” the unlucky Hulen replied. He sounded subdued. The voice returned.
“Is that you, Hammurabi? This is the old S.O.B. himself. What brings you down from orbit? I thought you hated anything over half a gee. Your credit, in full, has already been transceived to your ship’s account on Terra. I’d have thought you’d have checked on that long ago.”
“I did. That’s not why I’m here.”
“Well, then?”
“I’m peeved, Kingsley, peeved.”
“And presumably I’m the one who’s peeved you, eh? All right, come on up. Or down, rather. And bring your friends with you. We’ll see if we can’t unpeeve you.”
Firm as its footing in the sloping Pecces was, the wide delivery-way shifted slightly under their feet with the action of the tide. A human butler met them at the entrance to the black and gold structure.
“The master awaits you in the viewing room, sirs and lady. The sixteenth level.” The elegantly appointed servant directed them to a room-sized elevator. It was more than large enough to hold them all comfortably. Kitten depressed the stud marked 16 and the lift started to move.
“Feels like we’re moving downwards,” said Porsupah.
“I sense so too,” Philip added.
“The building is half below sea level,” Mal informed them. “I’ve never been here myself, but I’m acquainted with the schematics for storage reasons.” He indicated the lights over the front door. Number 18 had just winked out and 17 on.
“We entered at midpoint—about the 20th floor.” The door slid back silently. He stepped out into an enormous, unfamiliar room. It had a concave ceiling and was crescent shaped. The elevator shaft formed its apex.
The far wall was entirely glass. It revealed a breathtaking panorama of the sea floor that disappeared in a turquoise haze. Fish and sea mammals swam lazily back and forth in front of the glass, catching the sunlight which filtered down through the clear water. Some clustered around feeding platforms. A number differed sufficiently from the familiar vertebrates to be classed as eye-catching, if not exotic.
No, it was the room’s decor that deserved the latter label. There was no individual furniture. Seats, tables and chairs were formed by rises and depressions in the floor of the room. The entire compartment was covered in a rich, reddish-brown fur. Artificial, but still exorbitantly expensive. The hairs ran as long as five centimeters. The lining—it couldn’t be called a carpet—covered every space: floor, ceiling, walls, everything but that single panoramic window. Like the skin of some misshapen behemoth turned inside out. They were in the belly of a dream.
“Fascinating concept,” Kitten whispered. “Kind of like being inside a marsupial’s pouch.”
“A fine analogy, Miss Kai-sung,” boomed a voice from near the window.
Chatham Kingsley reclined on a low, fur-covered platform. He was shorter than any of them, with the exception, of course, of Porsupah. A good three centimeters shorter than Mal or Kitten. He affected a blond crewcut, a short, thick brush mustache, and a gold and topaz ring in one ear. Angular cheekbones, a pointed chin, Roman nose, and falsely innocent china-blue eyes completed the face. A curious mixture of putty and flint. The mind behind the baby-eyes was at least that hard—a fact which Kingsley’s ever-polite chatter strove to obscure.
“Well Malcolm, you arrived in time for lunch, anyway. Sit yourselves down, all of you. I’ve instructed the cook appropriately.”
“I’m afraid, Chatham, that there are a few things that are more important than—”
‘”Hold on,” said Kitten. “Porsupah and I haven’t had anything but a few scraggly canapes and fish sandwiches in the past 36 hours. At the moment, nothing is more important than lunch.”
“I myself have no intention,” added Porsupah, his eyes glued to the subterranean scene, “of staring at all those delightful and no doubt edible swimmers without taking a bite of something. Your obviously well-nourished bulk not excepted, Captain.”
“So we accept your invitation,” finished Kitten firmly. She stared challengingly at Mal, who sighed deeply and chose not to fight back.
“Marvelous! Bless you, my dear. Miss Kai-sung, wasn’t it?”
“Call me Kitten.”
“And you must call me Chatham, yes. Are you and your friend—Porsupah is a Tolian calling, I believe—are you really ranked officers in the Church forces? I’ve not seen you around city before.”
“Really and truly we are, Chatham. We’re only temporarily attached to the Rectory in Repler City.”
“A shame. But old Orvenalix’s taste is improving.” The merchant stared at her approvingly.
Kitten turned to Mal. “That settles your question. He’s innocent!” The freighter-captain groaned.
“Innocent?” said Kingsley uncertainly. “Then I am presumed guilty of some wrongdoing?” He shifted to a sitting position on the lounge, looked questioningly at Mal.
“Okay, okay. Let’s eat first, as voted. I confess I’ve been overruled by my innards, also. I’m famished.”
The others were playing with dessert. Mal was cleaning off his fourth leg of Garvual, a large, carnivorous wading bird, when their host cocked an inquiring eye at him. Mal had long since decided that subtlety would be as useful with Kingsley as it had been with Rose. For different reasons. He wiped his hands and mouth with a hot towel, stifled most of a gargantuan belch, and began.
“Chatham, I found a consignment of drugs mixed in with the Umbra’s last cargo. That shipment was 92% yours. We completely deshipped at Largess, so I know it came aboard there. It included a significant milling of refined bloodhype. Yes, bloodhype. Nearly pure, I’m told. Also a number of other nasty types, but nothing in jaster’s class. Don’t try and play coy with me. I know you’d be aware of the stuff’s reintroduction onto the market.”
Kingsley tapped delicately about the corners of his mouth with a towel. “It is true I am not entirely uninformed where information concerning trade in this section of the Arm is concerned.” He sat back and folded his hands contentedly over an emerging pot-belly. “Cordials will be forthcoming. Your implication, then, is that I am somehow involved in this traffic?”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Why wouldn’t you be? You live conveniently close to Dominic Rose, who we know is responsible for distributing the stuff.”
“We live on the same planet, that’s true.”
“This is too serious for sarcasm, Chatham.”
“Pomposity invites sarcasm.”
“Okay. Look, modern transport reduces a planet to nothing, distancewise. Your contacts are broader than his, better established, legitimate across the lanes, and have strong financial support. With his illegal connections, the two of you are logical partners in an enterprise capable of pulling astronomical profits.”
“I’d heard rumors that it was that old reprobate who’d been transshipping the stuff, but there was no way to confirm any of them. He covers himself too well. Or did, apparently. You’re wrong on several counts.
“For openers, much as I respect Rose’s business sense and his ability to handle compl
ex transactions across parsecs with a maximum of secrecy, I personally hate his guts. That would put a crimp in any relationship of needs founded on complete trust. Second, I’m doing quite well, thank you, trading in legitimate goods. Too well to risk jeopardizing everything for a single line. However profitable. And don’t think I don’t envy him the margin of that trade. I do. Not that I’m averse to handling something a little off-grain, understand. I’m no saint. A respectable stimulant like Kepong, now. The authorities frown on it, but it is not, strictly speaking, under edict.”
“According to whose lawyers,” said Kitten.
“Yes, a point of contention. But while the powers that be debate, I see no harm in making hay while the sun shines, as the saying goes. Wonder what ‘hay’ is? But bloodhype? That’s a little too filthy. A decent gun will kill a man honestly. That stuff eats as it kills. The thing that finally dies isn’t a man anymore. Or whatever race. No, no. Absolutely not.”
“What about your son?” broke in Philip. He’d finally turned away from a close inspection of the window view.
Kingsley swiveled in surprise. “Russell? My son, I fear, is not interested in anything remotely indicative of work. He is averse to business in all its manifestations, excepting his allowance.” The merchant sighed. “A deficiency which I fear I encourage overmuch.”
“Among other things,” Kitten said flatly.
“You’ve met him then, Kitten?”
“Briefly. Twice.”
“I’m not surprised.” The trader helped himself to a flagon of imported honey-pollen brandy from Calm Nursery. A second human servant had arrived with a rolling cart of drinkables. Clearly, people were still regarded as a status symbol on Repler. Porsupah opted for a tall bottle of Bitterind, a common mixer, and poured himself a straight glass.
“Yes, Russell would hardly miss a new arrival arranged like yourself, Kitten.” The trader chuckled. “The lad’s a terror with the ladies, I’m told.”
“Chatham,” began Kitten, “you don’t know the half of it. Matter of fact—”
Mal interrupted hastily. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Chatham . . .”
Porsupah put a restraining paw on Kitten’s arm, felt the tensed muscles relax. “Softly treading now, smooth-skin. The other is clearly not present. It is bad manners to think of killing the son of one’s host. Especially while drinking with him.”
“Relax, Pors. Obviously if he was around the old boy would have presented him. As for manners, I’m not going to consult a book of etiquette the next time I meet that chap. I’ll be very polite at his funeral.”
“Sssss! Listen, for a change.”
“I’ve as much as given my word on this drug thing,” said Kingsley amiably. “However, if you like, I’ll provide the strongest proof. I will post a bond with an intermediary to the effect that, should I ever be implicated of trafficing bloodhype or any of the commonly fatal drugs, you will receive thrice your payment for this last shipment—from my estate, if need be.”
“A grand gesture, Chatham. You almost convince me. I’ll take that offer. You’d better hope no one tries to frame you.”
Kingsley chuckled. “On the day someone manages that, I will hire in with an AAnn consortium as kitchen inspector. The bond will be drawn up tonight. By tomorrow morning it will be posted with the central exchange computer here and at annexes on Terra and Hivehom.”
“Fine.” Mal downed a straight glass of orange Couperanian brandy. He could trace its tactile path down his throat and into his stomach. It formed a pool of glowing warmth there, a small non-nuclear furnace.
“There now,” said Kingsley expansively, polishing off the remainder of his own drink. “If everyone is suitably fueled, I’ll give evidence of my openness in another manner. To all of you.” A conspiratorial tone had entered the trader’s voice. “I confess the action will not be entirely unselfish. I need some fresh, outside opinions. Surely you can’t do any worse than my own technicians.”
“Is it interesting or just profitable, your proof?” Kitten inquired.
“A deal of both, my dear. Come and decide for yourself.”
Leaving their silverware and glasses and such behind, awkward alien shapes in the smooth furry sea, they followed the merchant, to the central elevator. Kitten noticed he limped, slightly. The conveyance dropped them another ten levels but did not stop there. Instead, a series of lights running horizontally across the control panel blinked on. Apparently they were traveling parallel to the surface, deep into island bedrock.
Kitten estimated that they had traveled roughly two-thirds of the way into the island and slightly downward, when the doors finally slid back. The trader led them out.
Two men stood ready to greet them. They both relaxed at the sight of the merchant.
“Good evening, sir,” offered the one on their left.
“Evening Willus, Rave. Taking some guests to see the salvage.” Both guards hefted heavy, no-nonsense weapons: Paxton Five’s. The thick-bodied guns launched tiny self-propelled missiles with explosive warheads. They were clumsy and awkward at close range, but reflective laser armor would be useless against them.
There were guards at two more checkpoints, located at sharp turns in the tunnel.
“Never been through here before,” Mal said, staring at the smooth, machined walls. “Quite a hidey-hole. What do you keep down here, your trousseau?”
“Abandoned any need for that when my credit account first passed six figures. There are several storage chambers of varying size cut into the rock. We’re headed for the biggest.”
Mal nodded. “I noticed several other passageways branching off when we left the elevator.”
“This one is particularly well fortified. I use it to store the more expensive imports and exports. Also goods which require controlled atmosphere, peace and quiet. Delicate scientific apparatus, for example. Just now it happens to house a very intriguing hunk of cosmic jetsam a pair of shuttle-pilots—semi-regular employees of mine—found drifting in indifferent orbit. They had the good sense to plant a salvage beacon on it and contact me right away . . . The thing they hauled down is interesting more than as a mere representative of alien manufacture. You’ll see why.”
They turned another corner abruptly and stood in the described room. There was a thick door, retracted into the ceiling. Several other men and thranx were already there.
“Engineers and technical consultants from my staff in Repler City,” said Kingsley at an inquiring glance from Kitten. “Brought away from their regular jobs to work on this thing. Expensive.” He pointed. “That’s it.”
He indicated a huge rectangular block of metal standing slightly apart near the back of the chamber. At first glance it was not particularly impressive. It stood near a host of other carefully stacked crates. One of these stood unpackaged. Mal recognized the device as a commercial class Seatoler. This was a thranx-developed instrument which could accurately predict changes in ocean currents, water temperature at various depths, and even track and predict fluctuations in the height of the thermocline. In other words, a very valuable and exclusive hunk of fishing equipment. No doubt consigned to one of the larger fishing concerns on Repler.
One of the engineers noticed their arrival, walked slowly over to greet them. Skinny afterthought arms dangled from a short-sleeved workshirt. The man had a hooked nose and artificial corneas that gave his gaze an unnatural sparkle. Kitten could make out the silvery threads that ran around the edge of the implants.
“Sir, we still cannot locate any kind of button, switch, lever, or even a sign that this thing is meant to be opened. It took us four hours just to find a seam, you know.”
“I know, Martinez. I’m paying for it. Keep at it. I’m not ready to resort to slicing it open. Not yet. Haven’t you been able to learn anything about its insides?”
“Well, the metal—we’re pretty sure now that it is metal, by the way—resists normal xerographic and skeletonay probing. But one of the guys got the idea of trying a molif
low scan at very low power. We got some interior pickup that way, enough to take rough measurements of the body inside . . .” The man wiped sweat from his brow.
“There’s a creature in that thing?” asked Kitten.
“A genuine, certified new-to-science, bonafide alien. Yes, my dear.”
“About three meters tall,” the engineer continued. “Pickup was faint, and it’s hard to hold focus at such low power. We couldn’t get much more than that. It seems to be in an excellent state of preservation. I didn’t want to take a chance on harming the tissues by using the scanner at a stronger level. As far as direct visual observation goes, we’ve only found the one transparent section that the pilot marked. The red tinting of the glass, or whatever, is heavy enough to render it opaque in spots. Even so, you can make out more than is pleasant. It’s not pretty, Kingsley.”
“I’ve seen the frozepix, Martinez, I know. As I said, keep ’em at it. This amounts to a paid holiday for some, and I won’t tolerate loafing.”
“Yes sir.”
The group moved to the base of the metal ziggurat. It was mostly gray, shading to a bleached-bone white in places. Tiny pits were visible over most of the surface, scars from micrometeorites and null-flies.
“Another point, Hammurabi.” The trader was examining a particularly large pitting. “Analysis of a scraping from this thing—and you’ve no idea what we had to go through to get it—places it between five and six hundred thousand years of age. Now me, I’m fond of antiques, but this gives me the shivers.”
“And it’s been floating around in your backyard for that long?”
“No one knows for certain. According to what the smart boys tell me, that’s not likely. It would have been noticed before now. Still, Repler hasn’t been inhabited that long and large-scale commerce is pretty recent. More likely, though, it was floating free and happened to be captured by the planet’s gravity. There’s certainly nothing to indicate it was built around here. It doesn’t correspond to anything built by other known space-going races.”
Bloodhype Page 14
